by Dima Zales
“Yes,” Jacob agrees. “But we can Read people’s minds, as you now know, and that ability enables us to accurately assess human nature. Trust me when I say they would not take to us kindly at all. I wish it weren’t so, but it’s the truth.”
“So what do you think would happen if our existence became common knowledge?” I ask, putting my suddenly chilled hands around the warm cup.
“We could become secret slaves to some government agency—and that would be the best case scenario.” His jaw tightens. “The more likely possibility would be complete genocide.”
Genocide? Wow, he doesn’t pull his punches. “Does the prospect have to be so bleak?” I inquire, forcing myself to sip my coffee. I can’t resist my tendency to play the devil’s advocate. I haven’t given this topic much thought after my friends mentioned it, but what Jacob says actually sounds plausible—which is why some pain-in-the-ass part of me questions it. My habit of questioning virtually everything drove my moms and my uncle nuts when I was growing up. “What about progress?” I say. “Surely in modern times, people wouldn’t do something like that. It’s not like we’re that much different from anyone else.”
“We’re a different species.” His tone sharpens.
“Well, strictly speaking, we’re not.” Even though I risk further eroding the positive tenor of our discussion, I can’t help myself. “The ones you call half-bloods are proof of that.”
And just like that, the conversation takes a bad turn. Jacob’s face goes red. “You’re not here to split hairs about semantics.” He slaps his palm on the desk. “That so-called progress will just make our annihilation faster than we ever thought possible.”
I stare at him, shocked into silence by his outburst. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” I say in a soothing tone after a moment.
He takes a deep breath and lets it out in an audible sigh. “I’m sorry. This is a sensitive issue for me.”
“I understand,” I say cautiously. I wonder if he’s so touchy because Eugene, a half-blood, used to date his daughter. “You have to realize that I have a deep affinity for normal people—” I use my fingers to make air quotes around the word normal, “—since until recently, I assumed I was one. I didn’t know Readers existed.”
“Right, and that is probably a good reason for you to trust me. My people have had centuries to develop the best strategy for dealing with our situation—and it is not to let anyone know of our existence. That’s why I thought it important to talk to you. You are new to this, and being young, you’re by nature more idealistic, more naïve, than others. As a child, you didn’t get the usual Reader upbringing. You didn’t learn the horror stories of our turbulent past. Trust me, the danger to our people is real.”
I realize now that I might’ve devil’s-advocated my way into trouble. What if he thinks I can’t keep their secret and decides to silence me for the good of the species?
“You make a good case, Jacob,” I say solemnly. I pretend to think about it for a few seconds, hoping I’m not going overboard. “Upon reflection, I think you might be right about all this.”
Pacified, he smiles. “Mostly everyone comes to that conclusion.”
“I should tell you, though,” I say carefully, “as a child, I might’ve inadvertently broken the rules that I intend to follow from now on. I tried telling people about being able to go into what you call the Mind Dimension. I don’t think my attempts did Readers any harm, though. Everyone just thought I was nuts.“ I figure he can find this out anyway if he wants to—my moms’ and my shrink’s heads would be open books to any Reader—and by volunteering this information, I might be able to forestall any potential snooping. Not to mention, demonstrate my rule-abiding intentions.
As I’d hoped, Jacob shrugs, not looking overly concerned. “What’s done is done. Like you said, it was dismissed; that’s what matters most. It’s not a crime when you don’t know the rules. What’s important is that you’re discreet from now on. If you can mitigate some of your earlier slips, all the better. What’s truly forbidden are demonstrations of Reader abilities with the intent to reveal our nature.”
“Oh, I’ve never done that,” I say. “If we’re talking about Reading, I just didn’t have a chance to show off that particular skill. Of course, I’ve abused going into the Quiet before. In either case, though, I never told—and wouldn’t dream of telling—people about how any of this works, so I definitely have no plans to ‘reveal our nature.’”
I do wonder if Readers approve of using powers the way I’ve been using them, for my personal financial gain. I’m not going to ask Jacob about it, though. If he said ‘stop doing that,’ I’d be out of a job. If it’s forbidden, I’ll stop when he explicitly asks me to. Better to ask forgiveness than permission, right?
“Good. That’s what I thought,” Jacob says, smiling again. “You seem like an intelligent young man.”
“Thank you, Jacob. You don’t need to worry. I work in a field in which confidentiality is important. Besides, I’m a very private person. And don’t worry about the people I mentioned earlier, either—the ones who didn’t believe me. I’ll muddy the waters for them like you asked if it seems needed, but I highly doubt it will even be necessary,” I say, meaning nearly every word.
“That’s wonderful. Thank you for understanding.”
A weight is lifted off my shoulders. I got worried for a second that my moms might be in trouble. Truth be told, they didn’t for a moment believe my stories. If mitigation is needed, the place to start would be with my therapist. I’ve told her quite openly about the Quiet. Not that she believed me any more than my moms did. She thinks it’s just a delusion. Still, I should probably show her that I doubt that delusion, now that, ironically, I know it’s real.
This thought actually answers a question I’ve been pondering for a while—whether I should keep my standing appointment with my shrink tomorrow. Lately, I’ve been paying for my hour so I don’t lose my weekly spot, but not actually going to therapy. But today, I’ve been feeling the urge to actually go. I can now conveniently tell myself that all I want from my shrink is to lie to her about no longer having visions of the world being stopped.
Yep, just going to go ‘to mitigate,’ and not to talk about anything that’s bothering me—like the disturbing things I saw in Caleb’s mind, for example. Or my guilt about Pushing that guy to kill himself. Or that I’m more adopted than I realized. Or even that I’ve met a girl—something my shrink has been nagging me about for ages, almost like a third mom. All that babbling about my feelings would imply that I’m sensitive or something—which I’m definitely not. Nope, this visit will be about this discretion business. But, because I’m there anyway, I might as well talk about some of these other issues with my shrink—the ones that aren’t prohibited by the Reader code, at least. After all, that’s what I pay her for.
“Now that we have the discretion issue squared away, there is another minor thing I wanted to ask you,” Jacob says, distracting me from my musings about the upcoming therapy. “Does the name Mark Robinson mean anything to you?”
“No,” I say, confused. “Should it?”
“No. Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” He gets up. “Sam will take you back now. I’m happy we’re on the same page when it comes to keeping the Readers’ existence secret.”
He shakes my hand and walks me to Sam, who’s waiting behind the door. Sam leads me back to Caleb, as silently as before.
Chapter 6
“Where to?” Caleb asks me when we turn onto Emmons Avenue again.
“Can you please take me to Mira and Eugene’s apartment?” I give him the address from my phone.
As we fly through the streets, something suddenly hits me. I do know the name Mark. That was the name of my biological father. Could that be the Mark Jacob meant?
If so, could Jacob have known my father?
When Jacob first saw me on Skype, he said I looked familiar. Did he say that because he saw my resemblance to this Mark person? Or is Mark
Robinson someone else entirely? After all, Mark is a pretty common name.
I realize I need to ask my moms about my biological father’s last name.
“Here we are,” Caleb says. He brakes suddenly, just about throwing me through the windshield. We’re near the park across the street from Mira’s building. “Do you want me to wait for you?”
“No, thanks. I’ll just rent a car after this. But there is something I want to ask you,” I say, unbuckling my seatbelt.
“What’s that?” he asks. “You had a chance to chat on the way over, you know.”
I ignore his annoyed tone. “What happens to people who display their Reader powers to the world? Jacob warned me to be discreet, but I forgot to ask him about the consequences. What if I slip up?”
“It’s good that you didn’t ask him that.” Caleb furrows his brows. “But to answer your question, all I can say is nothing good would happen. This isn’t a game, kid. It’s deadly serious.”
“Can you be more specific?” I’m irritated at being called a kid yet again.
“If Jacob told me someone had done that, and if there was proof, I’d probably put a bullet in that person. Is that specific enough?” Caleb says, giving me a level look. “It would never happen, though. No Reader has ever been that stupid, and I doubt you are either.”
“But surely someone said something at some point,” I persist. “Or else there wouldn’t be these rules, right? Plus, there are ideas in regular people’s minds that seem like they might’ve originated with us. Where else would the concept of psychics come from? Just think of the term mind reading. And now that I think about it, maybe that’s also where the reincarnation myths originated, or even astral projection and remote viewing—”
“Don’t forget Bigfoot,” he says, looking pointedly at his car door. “Look, I’m no historian. Maybe back in the day, people blabbed, but they don’t now. And I’m sure those that did back then were burned at the stake, tortured, or had something equally unpleasant done to them by the ancient Readers. Our ancestors were pretty hardcore in that regard. Back then, for example, you’d get killed for fucking someone other than your assigned mate. And they wouldn’t kill just you—they’d kill the person you slept with. I think the reason no one ever does what you describe is that we all know this brutal history. Strictly speaking, no official has ever said, ‘We don’t do that to traitors anymore.’ So I’m telling you the truth: I’ve never heard of any modern-day lapses. We’ve looked into a few psychics who talked about reading minds, but it always turned out to be some lowlife con artist trying to scam people out of money, not Readers doing something they shouldn’t.”
His eyes flash darkly when he mentions the psychics. I wonder what he did to them. I don’t want to ask. I’ve had enough Caleb-related violence for one day.
“Okay, thanks. That explains it, I guess. Now, just one more thing I wanted to ask you,” I say tentatively, unsure how to go about this.
He lifts his eyebrows in a silent question.
“Can I have a gun?” I say it quickly, deciding to just blurt it out. As I say the words, I can’t help staring at his glove compartment.
“You mean that gun?” he says, following my gaze.
“Any gun will do.” I’m happy he doesn’t seem too pissed to learn I’ve been snooping. “That gun’s a revolver. They have simple mechanisms that should function in the Quiet—I mean, the Mind Dimension.”
“Most guns work in the Mind Dimension,” he says. “Fine. Take it—quickly, before I change my mind.”
I grab the gun and exit the car. I tuck the weapon into the waistband at the back of my pants, feeling very gangster all of a sudden.
“Take the coffee too,” he says, handing me the cup. “It was for you. Good luck in there.”
Before I get a chance to reply, he reaches over and shuts the passenger door, almost in my face. Then the car takes off, leaving a faint smell of burning rubber in its wake.
As he leaves, I remember another related question. What happens to the people to whom the hypothetically traitorous Reader tells the secret of our existence? I guess Caleb wouldn’t know, since he’s never dealt with anything like that. Or so he says. I can’t imagine it would be anything good. All the more reason to dissuade the shrink of my earlier revelations. I don’t want her to get hurt—she’s done right by me, even though I think she’s full of shit most of the time.
I walk over and sit down on a bench in the park to think things over while sipping the lukewarm coffee.
It’s 7:28 a.m. Mira and Eugene are probably still sleeping, like most normal people. If I do what I’m planning, Mira might be upset for more reasons than just my Pushing yesterday. But then again, I doubt I can make things worse—and I have a feeling that the element of surprise will be to my advantage.
Convinced, I sit up and, using the above-average anxiety I’m feeling at the moment, phase into the Quiet. As the sounds of the street go away, I walk toward the building.
The gun helps when it comes to opening the downstairs door. It also works like a charm on the lock of the door to their apartment. My ears still ringing from the gunshot only I could hear, I gingerly enter the apartment, thinking that it’s a good thing the damage will automatically be repaired when I phase back to normal.
I begin to question the sanity of my plan again as soon as I walk into what has to be Mira’s bedroom.
Mira is asleep on a gray futon. Her room is much less messy than the apartment overall. So it seems like the mess I noticed the other day is more Eugene’s fault.
I’m cognizant of a lacy bra and thong lying on the chair next to the bed. I didn’t think this part of the idea through. I’m in luck, though. She’s clearly not sleeping naked—the shoulder that’s visible above the blanket is clothed in a pajama top.
As I stand there, I wonder what will happen when I pull her into the Quiet with me while she’s sleeping. I was never able to fall asleep in the Quiet, which seems to imply that Mira will wake up as soon as she enters. I’m about to find out for sure.
I reach out, pull away a few stray strands of Mira’s soft dark hair, and gently touch her temple. Then I take a calming breath, realizing the chips are about to fall where they may.
She appears in the Quiet as a second Mira on the same bed, but closer to the edge on my side. This Mira has her eyes open and stares at the ceiling for a moment. Then she turns and looks at her still-sleeping double.
“Please don’t panic,” I whisper softly.
Hearing me, Mira jackknifes to a sitting position on the bed. Swinging her feet down to the floor, she looks at me, obviously confused.
Dressed in polka-dot pajamas, without all the makeup and the femme-fatale clothing, she looks a lot more approachable than the last time I saw her. Like the proverbial girl next door. A little vulnerable, even. These illusions last for only a moment before I get the most seething look she’s ever given me.
“What. The. Fuck,” she says somewhat incoherently, and for the first time, I hear a slight Russian accent in her speech.
“I’m sorry to burst in on you like this,” I say quickly. “But I really needed to talk to you. Will you please hear me out?”
She jumps up—eyeing her purse, which happens to be behind me.
My heart sinks as I realize she’s looking for the gun I recall her carrying in that purse.
Before I can complete the thought about the gun, she’s right next to me, throwing a punch. Without consciously planning it, I catch her small fist in my hand a millisecond before it connects with my face. Then I hold it for a few moments, looking into her eyes. She seems shocked at my quick reaction. As soon as she gets her wits back and starts struggling, I let go of her hand.
She tries to kick me in the shins next, and I step back, again without conscious thought.
She almost loses her balance when her leg doesn’t connect with its intended target. Her frustration turns into anger, every expression clear on her face, and she runs for the door. I briefly regret my n
ewfound fighting reflexes. Maybe if she’d hit me, it would’ve been cathartic for her. Maybe afterwards she would’ve been willing to listen. And I can’t imagine her punches would’ve hurt me that much—given her slim frame and all. And I’m not being sexist here, by the way. Not exactly. If my tiny friend Bert had punched me, seeing as he can’t weigh much more than Mira, I doubt I would’ve felt anything either.
I follow her and realize she’s heading into what must be Eugene’s bedroom. She must be thinking about pulling him into the Quiet with us. Or getting his gun. Or both.
I wait, letting her do what she wants. I feel fairly safe, figuring that if she didn’t kill me yesterday, she’s even less likely to do so today after a good night’s sleep. Hopefully.
Eugene walks out, wearing only wrinkled tighty-whiteys and looking confused. I don’t get a chance to smirk at his appearance because Mira—holding that gun of his—immediately follows him.
The most worrisome part of this is that her hand is steady. I didn’t expect that at all. She looks much calmer than yesterday—much more ready to shoot me. How could I have misjudged the situation so horribly?
I hear the gun safety click off.
Is it possible to have a heart attack in the Quiet? If so, I might be flirting with that possibility, given how fast my heart is beating.
She’s carefully aiming at my head.
I expect to see at least some doubt on her face, but she looks completely calm. Merciless. Her forearm tenses as though she’s about to pull the trigger.
I put my hand in front of my face, like that could actually protect me.
“Mira, stop.” Eugene puts himself between me and the barrel. “Think about what you’re about to do. He can spend months in the Mind Dimension.”
Either seeing her brother in the way or hearing his words causes her to hesitate.
I’m speechless. She really was about to kill me, and Eugene obviously thought so as well. As I take a calming breath, I try not to focus on this fact. The knowledge of what she was about to do stings badly. More than I would’ve imagined. Thinking about it now, I realize everything I’d convinced myself of was just wishful thinking. I was so sure she wouldn’t hurt me. Now, as the hard reality hits, learning that she would kill me feels like a deep betrayal—even though it shouldn’t.